


>playlist

by sonshineandshowers



Series: Martin's Murder Playlist [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Humor, Implied Staying Inside for Social Distancing but Not Discussed Why, Mental Health Issues, cabin fever, sibling fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Every day Malcolm is cooped up at home starts with the alarm that he’s still inside. Day…he doesn’t even know anymore. Day he can leave…no idea. Soundtrack to his life.Martin's Murder Playlist Series: Hey Tomorrow.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Cabin Fever.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly
Series: Martin's Murder Playlist [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685980
Kudos: 22
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	>playlist

Every day Malcolm is cooped up at home starts with the alarm that he’s still inside. Day…he doesn’t even know anymore. Day he can leave…no idea. Fucking soundtrack to his life.

He ditches his old playlist because it reminds him too much of life outside his loft. He doesn’t know when it’ll be safe to go out again, and it hastens his heart with the feeling of being trapped just thinking about it.

He has Ainsley make him a new playlist, his only request — “No metal.”

A _Wake the Brighty_ playlist shows up in a text that evening. He cues it up so it’ll go through a new song each day and slips into bed.

“It’s temporary. It’s temporary. It’s temporary,” he repeats the mantra designed to keep him settled. He doesn’t hear any background noise from the city streets. “It’s temporary.”

* * *

_What you want_ blasts from his speakers, and he shoots awake, heart pounding in his chest before _baby, I got it_ follows. The interlocking links to his cuffs rattle against each other. He squeezes one hand in the other, stopping its shaking.

He huffs out a gush of air, trying to return to a calmer center to start his day. It doesn’t work. His fingers curl into his palms, his short nails digging in an old habit to try to control his stress. He removes the cuffs and stalks out of bed, flicking off the stereo.

He’s in the shower for twenty minutes before he can breathe normally again. Fuck this home detention. _It’s temporary_.

* * *

Drums pick up in his ears, the beat perking an idea of starting the day dancing, and then he eventually makes out some of the words — _sometimes I go out by myself and I look across the water_.

He wanted to go for a walk. Wanted to head block after block letting out all of his energy, exploring how the city had changed. Wanted to see spring and all it had to offer, even if it threatened his allergies.

 _Why don’t you come on over, Valerie?_ sounds, and he’s only reminded of all of his family and friends he cannot see. The endless walls that loom over him and the Panera monster that wants to swallow him into the basement.

He can’t get to the stereo fast enough. He trips over his pant legs and puts a hand out in front of him to hit the wall instead of face planting into the floor.

* * *

Malcolm drifts awake to a string symphony of _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_ playing through his speakers. The clock says 10AM. _Shit_.

There are six texts that say _call me, kid_. Three missed calls. He calls back. “Gil?”

“Jeez, kid — I was just gonna come looking for you.” He can hear Gil playing with his lips on the other end of the line.

“You’re not supposed to be outside,” Malcolm cautions.

“You _always_ pick up.”

“Funny thing — I slept in.” Malcolm chuckles, putting on hot water.

“Are you sick?” Gil’s surprised concern reaches through.

“Lonely,” Malcolm admits, his loft an awful place to be all day.

“You could be with your mother.” He can hear the hint of Gil’s smile.

He gets Gil’s point that there could be worse scenarios. “Not _that_ lonely.”

“Alright, well — stay safe. Call me if ya need an ear.” Gil pauses and wraps with, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The daily check in that reminds, everything is not normal. _It’s temporary_.

But all his days flowing into one, it’s pretty damn hard to believe it.

* * *

_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone_ , Malcolm wakes, rips his cuffs off as fast as he can, and checks that Sunshine's still in her cage. She tweets at him and he takes a deep breath — _this house just ain't no home anytime she goes away_.

He sinks to the floor, relieved his baby is safe. Is this what Gil feels like when Malcolm gets into trouble? Does his heart patter and palms sweat when he can’t find him? Does his anxiety hop up ten notches when Malcolm gets hurt? Does Gil ever have anxiety?

Boneless, he pulls himself across the floor and shuts off the stereo, not wanting to be reminded of his worry. _Need to be able to shut this off faster_ , he thinks, and rummages in the cabinet, finding the Echo Dot Ainsley had given him because she didn’t need it.

Setting it up is a project that takes ten minutes. Now he needs to figure out what to do with the other 1430.

He goes back through the cabinet, finds his stress ball, and retreats to the living room.

* * *

_Walkin' in the sunshine, sing a little sunshine song_ seems like a great way to start the day, but then it turns into _put a smile upon your face as if there's nothing wrong_ , which is the worst advice he could possibly follow. 

He shouts, "Alexa, turn off the stereo," and she responds, "Sorry, I'm not sure about that."

He yells, "Alexa, turn off the stereo!"

And gets up and forcefully flicks the stereo off before she ever fulfills the request.

Fucking hell.

* * *

_Hey tomorrow, where are you goin', do you have some room for me?_ gently wakes him. The verses are pleasant. Malcom considers _finally_ , he may have found a song that has some hope of keeping him sane.

He savors an extra few moments in bed, the sun caressing his face, not warming him quite as well as it would outside, but enough to evoke the experience. He reminds himself, _it’s temporary_ , he’ll be back running soon enough. Imagines heading down by the river, the gulls as his company. Wonders how out of shape he’ll feel by then.

 _I’ve been taken by those close to me_ plays, and he remembers where he’s heard this song before. In the front seat of his father’s station wagon, driving for a campground.

“Alexa, turn off the stereo,” he calls before the memories can get too vivid.

The silence cuts into him like a Jersey rest stop switchblade.

* * *

Malcolm’s eyes open to cheery whistling and accompaniment that makes his toes dance a little bit. _If you love somebody_ starts, and he almost tells Alexa to turn it off.

But the foreign tingle of happiness still in his feet, he doesn’t.

 _‘Cause I’m on top of the world, ‘ey,_ makes the loft feel a little cheerier. He pulls on socks so he can run and slide across the floor, seeing how close he can make it to the living room couch. The chorus repeats several times, and he keeps running back, taking another whoosh past the kitchen trying to get the glide right. One time, he hits the back of the couch and nearly falls over it.

“Alexa, stop,” Malcolm says, but the music’s too loud for her to hear him.

He lets the music loop a second time before he walks across the loft to shut it off.

* * *

Malcolm gives up and swaps his playlist back to his original, adding in the one extra song _On Top of the World_. He picks up his phone and makes a final call before putting it away for the night.

“Your playlist is _terrible_ ,” he complains to Ainsley.

“I seriously question your taste.” She’s sassy as ever, probably walking back and forth in front of her gallery of windows looking down at the city she can’t travel.

“Ains, I could have put it on shuffle and come up with better.” He’s pacing in his own loft in front of the kitchen.

“You might have gotten metal.”

He goes quiet, realizing there’s an awfully long list of things he’d need to specify to truly get to music appropriate for him to wake to. She’d still make a playlist for him, working on it relentlessly until it was right, but there’d be a lot of laughing involved on her part as to _why_ that he really didn’t feel like dealing with.

“Go to your closet,” her voice instructs, bringing his attention back to her.

“Hmm?”

“Go to your closet.”

He listens and stands in front of it.

“Take out your weighted blanket.”

“ _Ains_.”

“Take — “

“ _Okay_.” He takes it out and wraps himself up on the floor.

He hears faint guitar in the background, and then Ainsley’s voice starts, “ _Here comes the sun, do do do do_ — “

“Ains.”

“Shhh — _and I say it’s alright_.” Her voice is quiet and warm, the light hint of a giggle threatening to creep out.

“ _Little darling, it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter_ ,” Malcolm returns, his voice coming out of hiding, clearing his throat between lines to sound less strained. “ _Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here_.”

“ _Here comes the sun, do do do do_ ,” Ainsley picks back up again, and he can hear her full grin, see her head bouncing with each _do_. “ _Here comes the sun and I say it’s all right_.”

Malcolm smiles as the song turns over to an instrumental break, brighter than he’s felt in days.

“You remember,” Ainsley comments.

“Of course. Is that on there?”

“Num _ber_ — 58,” she drags out while he assumes she’s scrolling through her phone.

 _Wow_. “How many are on there?”

“A hundred.”

“That’s a long time.” Would it really be another 100 days before he could go outside? Holy _shit_.

“You’re picky. Had to put enough so you could find something you liked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, bro.” She pauses and suggests, “How about you listen through it while you’re awake and make a new playlist of the ones you like?”

“That makes…sense.” He rubs his forehead and lets go of the blanket.

“Cabin fever rotting your brain?” she teases.

“I’m fairly certain I’m a zombie.” Had he eaten today? Maybe? “Thanks, Ains.”

“Go sleep.”

* * *

_fin_


End file.
